


Business As Usual

by callay



Category: Victoriocity (Podcast)
Genre: Banter, College flashbacks, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 18:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/pseuds/callay
Summary: And instead, all he got was a note. Delivered in the usual way, written in the usual code – a brief comment about the weather, encoding an address that turned out to be a cab depot. And at the end, the words “Business as usual?” in plain text.No apologies, no explanations, just a request. Balmoral wanted to laugh at the nerve of it. He wanted to cry in relief. He’s still got the note now, tucked into his chest pocket – a grievous breach of protocol to have kept it, but after everything that happened, Balmoral is feeling rather rebellious.





	Business As Usual

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd write something quick because I enjoy Victoriocity so so much, but it turns out I had a lot of Sandringham thoughts to attempt to include, and it was really hard, and it took forever! I hope you enjoy.
> 
> This takes place right after the end of Season 2 (and thus contains major Season 2 spoilers!) Apologies in advance for all anachronisms and Americanisms.

After Lady Carmichael is dealt with, Julian packs Sandringham and Balmoral off on holiday. “Please, I insist. You must rest and recuperate” – offering a meaningful glance at Balmoral and his cane – “while I try to make some of this mess go away” – with an even weightier look for Sandringham. 

Yachting being out of the question until Balmoral is recovered, Julian sends them to Paris for a change of scenery. It’s a pleasing prospect – until they discover that the fashionably quaint flat Julian has procured for them is on the fifth story, and the only way up is a very narrow and very winding staircase.

Balmoral peers up the stairs. “The recuperation begins.”

“I’ve heard exercise is the best medicine,” offers Sandringham, throwing an arm around Balmoral’s side for support.

“Forgive me if I don’t trust you on medical matters,” responds Balmoral drily, but he gamely throws his arm over Sandringham’s shoulder, and they proceed.

The staircase is narrow enough that they’re hip-to-hip, struggling their way step by step with only three fully operational legs between them. But Sandringham is steady at Balmoral’s side, pulling him onwards and upwards, and they make considerably better time than if Balmoral were left to take the stairs with his cane.

Once inside the flat – as fashionably quaint as promised – Balmoral collapses onto the sofa, suppressing a wince.

“Glass of water?” asks Sandringham.

“If you’d be so kind.”

Sandringham returns with two glasses of water. Balmoral, who’d been listening to his rummaging in the kitchen purely out of habit, points out, “You didn’t put the kettle on.”

“No tea, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Not to worry. I’ll run out to the _marchet_ in a moment.”

“I’d offer to go, but –”

“Yes, yes.”

Sandringham drops into a casual seat on the arm of a chair. Balmoral watches him. Sandringham is quieter when there’s nobody around to perform for, but there’s still a flair to the way he moves, like he’s always showing off. It’s what first caught Balmoral’s eye, back at Oxford – when Sandringham was a slender blond undergrad in a striped jersey, a full head shorter than the rest of the Babbage College crew but strong and flexible enough to make up the difference. 

Babbage had just defeated Brasenose College rather soundly, and Sandringham – he went by his real name then, of course, but Balmoral’s long since trained himself to use their codenames – was celebrating with his team, all bright smiles and _bons mots_. Balmoral, rather used to being the hero of the race himself, should have been jealous, and yet the tightness in his chest was not quite jealousy.

Later, once the celebratory handshakes (Babbage) and the consoling slaps on the back (Brasenose) had wound down and the two teams were joined in the common pursuit of sustenance, Sandringham appeared at Balmoral’s side, seemingly from nowhere.

“You were watching me,” he said.

It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation. Balmoral shrugged. “You freshers are always good for a laugh.”

“Ah. I can see how you’d need one, after that unfortunate display.”

Balmoral should have been offended, and yet the heat that threaded through his veins was not quite anger. He shook his head. “We’ll see if you’re so bold after next month’s race.”

And Sandringham just smiled, his eyes dancing like water under sunlight. “I’m always bold.”

True enough, and only to be proven further by the many years to follow.

“You look pensive,” says Sandringham now, arch enough that Balmoral realizes he’s been staring.

“Just feeling somewhat nostalgic,” he says. “I believe almost dying tends to have that effect.”

Sandringham clicks his tongue. “What are we on holiday for, my good man? Forget any of that warship nonsense ever happened.”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“Oh?” responds Sandringham breezily. “Then I’ve no idea what you could be referring to, since we both know any previous injuries you sustained were not life-threatening.”

The doctor who treated Balmoral’s leg had, in fact, said as much (although for some reason, he had sounded disappointed.) The gunshot wound would have been dangerous if left unattended, but wouldn’t kill so long as Balmoral received immediate medical attention.

Still. “You can see how it didn’t feel that way at the time.”

Sandringham sobers. “I didn’t have a choice, Balmoral. I had to get Maud out of there. And I knew you’d forgive me.”

Another bold claim – Balmoral himself didn’t know for a long time if he’d forgive Sandringham. He spent days lying in the hospital, his mind running in circles, belief warring against betrayal. Hoping that Sandringham would appear out of nowhere and explain everything.

And instead, all he got was a note. Delivered in the usual way, written in the usual code – a brief comment about the weather, encoding an address that turned out to be a cab depot. And at the end, the words “Business as usual?” in plain text.

No apologies, no explanations, just a request. Balmoral wanted to laugh at the nerve of it. He wanted to cry in relief. He’s still got the note now, tucked into his chest pocket – a grievous breach of protocol to have kept it, but after everything that happened, Balmoral is feeling rather rebellious.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have trusted Sandringham so easily, shouldn’t have run back to him on the basis of three words. But he noticed a long time ago that his feelings about Sandringham are never quite what they’re supposed to be.

Like right now, watching Sandringham sitting on the arm of the chair, one leg swinging, his features highlighted in gold by the afternoon sun through the window. Maybe Balmoral should still be wary of him – but when he looks at Sandringham, the skip of his heart is not quite suspicion.

He lets out his breath. Of course he was always going to forgive Sandringham. Bold, clever, unflinching Sandringham.

It almost feels like a revelation. If he can forgive Sandringham for shooting him, then what else could ever come between them?

He shakes his head, smiling. “Well, Sandringham, you were right.”

“I’m always right, Balmoral,” answers Sandringham cheerily. “Now. Someone needs to remedy the appalling lack of provisions in this flat, and I suppose that will have to be me.” He unfolds himself from the chair.

Balmoral wants to cling to his moment of revelation. “Sandy, wait –” He stands, suddenly enough that he puts weight on his bad leg and winces in pain.

Immediately Sandringham takes his elbow. “Steady on.”

They’re very close now.

“I was thinking,” says Balmoral quietly. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“What’s that?”

“Business as usual.”

Sandringham falls still. “Why, what else should it be?” he asks finally.

“Do you remember when you fell off the roof?”

It was at Oxford, a prank gone wrong that ended up with Sandringham bedridden with bruised ribs and a broken arm. Balmoral, visiting, found him propped up in bed like a prince.

“Ah,” said Sandringham immediately. “You must feed me soup.”

“Feed yourself, your other arm is fine.”

“But how am I to hold the bowl?”

So Balmoral fed soup spoonful-by-spoonful to a self-satisfied Sandringham. In the two years Balmoral had known him, he’d never known Sandringham to fall ill, and he could hardly begrudge him a little coddling when he had the chance.

But despite the soup, and despite Balmoral’s efforts to entertain, he could feel gloom lurking under Sandringham’s cheer. Eventually he put down the spoon. “Are you in much pain?”

“Oh – no,” said Sandringham. Then, under Balmoral’s inquiring gaze, he offered a wry smile. “I’m just cursing myself as a fool for falling.”

“I heard it was entirely Smythe’s fault.”

“Oh, it was. But still. I should have been able to extricate myself.” Sandringham laid his arms on the coverlet and looked down at them – the right in a cast, the left bare past the short sleeve of his pajama shirt, tan-skinned and muscular. A rower’s arm, or a brawler’s.

He had been skinnier when they first met, Balmoral remembered, pale and slender. Now, he still had all that same grace, but he was bulkier, broader of shoulder. Did he miss who he used to be, in his mysterious past?

Balmoral, who’d ached for him since he first saw him, could only want him more and more.

He kept his voice light. “And here I thought it was all a cunning plan to skip lecture and make your friends dote on you.”

“If so, it hasn’t worked. Your doting has been very poor so far,” answered Sandringham easily, but when his eyes flicked to Balmoral’s, there was something distant and yearning in them.

Balmoral’s heart thumped against his ribs. By way of comfort, or maybe something that was not quite comfort, he reached out and touched Sandringham’s arm. Carefully, tracing the lean swell of muscle, feeling the warmth of Sandringham’s skin. Sandringham’s wrist was narrow, the bones sharp under his skin, and his hand long-fingered and strong. Balmoral folded his hand over Sandringham’s and squeezed.

Sandringham, who never hesitated, seemed to hesitate, and his voice when he spoke was breathless.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” asked Balmoral, low.

“You know.” Sandringham pulled his hand away, smoothed nervously at the coverlet. “Good god, John, I took you for respectable.”

Balmoral didn't look away. He knew he wasn't wrong about this, no matter how mysterious Sandringham was in other ways. “What's wrong? Scared to jeopardize your plan to work for her majesty?”

His voice was teasing, but Sandringham answered earnestly, his eyes intent. “Yes.”

Of course. Sandringham’s one goal, the iron core under his carefree student’s life. Balmoral was at Oxford because his father sent him; Sandringham, apparently fatherless for all Balmoral had been able to learn, seemed to have fought his way there on nothing but force of will, and intended to go much further still.

“Well,” said Balmoral lightly. “If you ever change your mind, I’ll be right here.”

And that was the last that was said on the subject.

Now, in Paris, Sandringham draws back, that same wary look on his face. “I remember. However, if you’re asking me to feed you soup, you’ll have to let me go purchase some first.”

“Forget the soup.” Something twists in Balmoral’s stomach, but it’s not quite nervousness. “You know, Edward – I’ve been waiting since then.”

“Waiting?” repeats Sandringham quietly.

“Waiting for us to reach the future you wanted. Waiting for your past to be finished with you.”

Sandringham lets out a breath like a laugh. “How poetic.”

“Yes, well, I have had a long time to think about it.”

“John, I –” A pause, and then, raggedly: “I wanted this, I just –”

“You had to focus on saving your father. I know.”

“Yes. By god, Balmoral. I didn’t think you were actually waiting.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought you were happy with – well. Business as usual.”

Balmoral chuckles. “I wasn’t unhappy, you know.”

“Yes, I… I know the feeling.” Sandringham takes a breath. His eyes are bright and clear, like a summer sky. “Well. I suppose it would be cruel to make you wait any longer, Balmoral.”

“Very cruel indeed, Sandringham,” says Balmoral, just a little breathless.

And Sandringham kisses him.

It’s easy. So easy, like the bite of two well-carved gears. Sandringham twists his hand in Balmoral’s shirt and Balmoral threads his fingers through Sandringham’s hair – longer, now, than when he was young – and their mouths fit together fierce and warm. Balmoral, slightly off balance thanks to his injury, leans his weight against Sandringham, and Sandringham pulls him closer still, so that their bodies are pressed close, and they’re supporting each other.

Balmoral has noticed a curious thing that happens when he and Sandringham are together. It starts to feel like there’s nobody else in the world. There are people around, of course – but they’re nothing but an audience for Sandringham and Balmoral’s wit, or instigators and obstacles to draw out their cleverness. All that really matters is the two of them, circling and reflecting each other, like the sea and the sky.

This feels like that, but even more so. Like there’s nothing in Balmoral’s world but Sandringham – no haunted past and no uncertain future, no secrets and no regrets. Nothing but this exact moment, the specific force of Sandringham’s kiss and the precise press of his body.

Exactly what he's been waiting for.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [calllay](https://calllay.tumblr.com/post/187451812289/i-enjoyed-victoriocity-so-much-i-was-determined) on Tumblr!


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